My shoes seem so evil.
I don’t know why I think that,
and I know shoes can’t think,
so, why I would think them evil
escapes me.
Maybe it has something to do with
where they have taken you
and how much trauma
they have brought you to,
I tell myself,
but then remember,
if anybody is telling anybody anything
it’s me telling my shoes
they’ve maybe walked me there,
since shoes also can’t speak.
This I thought about this morning
while sitting at my desk
to free write in my journal.
It’s thinking about what’s real
that has me addressing you, reader,
as I know that, if anybody’s evil
in this passing disenchantment
it’s got to be yours truly.
What about myself do I consider
to be such a curse, I wonder?
Is it because
whenever I’m kind
to defiant kids at school
just giving me information
I’ll need to help them,
I think for a moment
they are ignoring me,
when they are really
just ignoring themselves,
and perhaps needing
a little less attention?
Or does it have something to do
with me writing these
things nobody will read,
the way aloneness carried me
through pain most of my life,
a shuttle through space, and me
looking out the window and thinking
how can emptiness
and it’s conjoined twin uncertainty
find an edge in this galaxy
of premature intuition,
especially, since I know
the nobody I keep referring to
is actually me, and that space,
a metaphor for a kind of
protective loneliness, in this case,
is also me?
It’s not hard then to surmise that
this anonymous curse
I think I might be,
might actually be a kind of gift,
and that I’m luckier than I think I am,
but just don’t realize how yet,
that this is just me putting
a lot of faith in myself again,
when launching into a feeling
of self-pity and remaining up there,
adrift, would be so much easier
to live with.